My Next To Normal Inspired One-Shots
by TheShortestDetectiveOfThemAll
Summary: Collection of one-shots. Johnlock Fluff. Rated M for language. Inspired by songs from Next To Normal. Deduce the meaning:)
1. Perfect For You

**A/N: This was inspired by a song from Next To Normal, so any dialogue that looks like song lyrics most likely is. Please enjoy! Disclaimer: I don't own any characters or song lyrics. This is all for fun!**

John sat on the sofa in 221 B, blogging about the last case he and Sherlock had worked on. As he put the finishing touches on the post, he heard Sherlock coming up the stairs to the flat.

"Sherlock," he called out, closing his laptop and setting it to the side.

"Hello, John. Finished blogging?"

"Of course," he answered, stretching his arms in front of his body. He smiled inwardly as the tall detective sat beside him.

"John," Sherlock said, shifting uncomfortably, "our planet is poisoned…"

John looked at Sherlock quizzically and opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock hurriedly continued on, "…the oceans, the air. Around and beneath and above you."

"Yes, Sherlock, that's true, and um, I totally care. Tea?" John quickly got up and busied himself in the flat's kitchen, confused by what Sherlock was saying. The man never bothered to know anything about what was going on in the world. Sherlock stood and followed him.

"John, I'm trying to tell you-"

"What are you trying to tell me, Sherlock?"

"I love you."

"What?"

Silence fell in 221 B as John's mind reeled.

"I love you."

John flushed and tugged at the front of his jumper. He looked down at his feet and grinned. This man, the beautiful Sherlock Holmes, loved him.

"The world is at war, filled with death and disease. We dance on the edge of destruction. The globe's getting warmer by deadly degrees."

"And this is one fucked up seduction. But seeing as it's you, Sherlock…"

"This planet is pretty much broken beyond all repair. But one thing is working, though, if you're standing there."

"…the hell?"

"Perfect. For you. I can be perfect for you. I might be a loner, and rude, and obsessed with murder, it's true. But I might be perfect. I'll make myself perfect. Perfect. For. You. You'll square all the corners, I'll straighten the curves."

"You've got some nerve, Sherlock."

"But even if everything else turns to dirt, we'll be the one thing in this world that won't hurt. I can't fix what's," Sherlock swallowed hard against the word, "fucked up. But one thing I know I can do, John. I can be perfect for you."

"And _I _can be perfect for you."

"Perfect," Sherlock murmured as he bent his head down, staring into the doctor's eyes. Slowly, he closed the gap until their lips touched. The kiss was soft, and John found his hands entangled in Sherlock's curly hair, pulling him closer. When the detective pulled away, he wore a cocky smile on his face, and the doctor smiled.

Again, John asked, "Tea?" and turned to the stove to put the kettle on. Sherlock nodded behind him and left the kitchen, trailing his hand along John's back as he meandered to the sitting room.

Left to his thoughts, John hummed to himself as he prepared the tea. He wanted to shout for joy; Sherlock Holmes was in love with _him_, John Watson, the doctor with nerves of steel. John brought Sherlock his mug of tea and sat next to him on the sofa.

"John," Sherlock began, "I, um, if that was too-"

"Sherlock, shut up." With a look of surprise on his face, Holmes closed his mouth and stared at the doctor, "don't be sorry."

"Why?"

"Because even though it was surprising, I obviously feel the same way."

"I know," the detective answered; John rolled his eyes, sighing heavily. Sherlock smirked, and not able to help himself, leaned over and kissed the doctor. John's eyes fluttered closed, and again, his hands found the detective's dark curls. Sherlock had one hand on John's face, rubbing his thumb up and down his cheekbone, and another just above his knee, resting. When John finally pulled himself away from Sherlock, both men smiled at each other and enjoyed their tea in each other's company.


	2. Make Up Your Mind Catch Me, I'm Falling

**A/N: Again, inspired by a bunch of songs from Next To Normal, so anything that seems like it would be lyrics is. The songs that are missing in the chapter title: Aftershocks and I Miss The Mountains**

"John. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Anything. I just need to let go."

"All right. Now close your eyes. Walk with me, down some stairs. Go step by step into the darkness down there."

"Erm, Ella. Should we turn on a light? You know, with the stairs?"

Ella sighed, shifting in her seat, "walk with me, down a hall. It's a hall that you know. At the end, there's a door, a door that you've never laid eyes on before. Open the door."

John walked Ella through his history, where he grew up, his parents, his disagreements with Harry, the war.

"And then… I-"

"You what, John?"

The doctor broke down, "he's not here."

"I think that our session is over. That's enough for today."

John left, leaning against his cane. The limp had come back ever since _that day_.

_Catch me, I'm falling._

Everything had been different when he'd had Sherlock. He was a best friend, a lover. He was the very thing keeping John happy. Keeping him alive.

_Flying headfirst into fate._

"I just need to forget him," he said in another session, "that's _all_ I need."

"Then tell me about him."

_Catch me, I'm falling._

"He was a great man. Just brilliant at everything. He always knew how to make me laugh. He… loved me." The two words were barely as loud as a breath.

"Sorry, what?"

"Nothing," John quickly muttered, his mind going back to the day Sherlock had awkwardly revealed his feelings, "He was absolutely crazy, he'd play the violin at three in the morning, he'd conduct experiments in the kitchen…"

_Sinking and sprawling._

_ Catch me, I'm falling._

"Is that all?"

"Yes."

"I want you to write him a letter. Tell him all of these things that you've told me."

Dear Sherlock,

I miss you. I miss your brilliance. I miss hearing the violin. I miss finding severed body parts in the fridge. I miss your kisses. I miss your arms. I miss everything about you. Please come back, Sherlock. Please. I love you. I miss you more every day. The past two and a half years have been hell. Goddammit, Sherlock. Come back. I love you so much. Why did you have to leave me? Please.

Love,

John

The letter was dropped at 221 B, and Mrs. Hudson placed it in Sherlock's hand wordlessly when she found it on the doorstep. He recognized the handwriting, opened and read the letter.

"They've managed to get rid of me, return me to the grave. They've driven out the demons, of that the doctor's sure. The memories will wane. The aftershocks remain. And with nothing to remember, is there nothing left to grieve?"

Sitting with Ella, John murmured, "with nothing to remember…"

"John, how would you feel about moving back into the flat?"

"I- I don't know."

"It seems like it would help you cope with the loss of your best friend. You would be able to go back to normal life. If you don't want to do that, we could try medication. It could help you sleep."

"I don't know. Could I talk to Mrs. Hudson before I decide?"

"Of course."

Later, in the evening, John knocked on the front door of 221 B Baker Street.

"Oh, John! How are you? It's lovely to see you. Would you like some tea?"

"I'm all right, thanks. And a cuppa sounds nice."

"All right. Have a seat."

"Thank you. I've come to talk about moving back into the flat."

Mrs. Hudson stared at him in disbelief, "Are you sure? You haven't been here for a long time."

Realizing that as he spoke it was true, John said, "Mrs. Hudson, I am absolutely positive."

"Go on up and have a look around. I haven't done much," Mrs. Hudson offered, hoping to reunite the two men. She couldn't bear to see either of them in pain without each other.

"No, thank you," John said, "I just wanted to let you know. I miss him so much."

"I know, dearie. Are you still up for tea?"

"No. I'd best be off. Thank you."

"Anytime."

"John came 'round tonight."

"Did he? How is he?"

"Broken. Why can't you just tell him you're alive and well?"

The next week, John was with Ella again.

"So?"

"There was a time when I flew higher. Was a time the wild one running free, would be me. All these blank and tranquil years, seems they've dried up all my tears. I miss the mountains. I miss the dizzy heights. All the climbing, all the falling. All the dark, depressing nights. Mountains make you crazy; here it's safe and sound. My mind is somewhere hazy; my feet are on the ground. Everything is balanced here and on an even keel. Everything is perfect. Nothing's real. I miss my life."

"What are you saying, John?"

"I'm moving back in."

"Why?"

"Because I need it. I need to be back there. I think everything will finally be over. I will accept that he's gone."

"Excellent. When do you move back in?"

"Next week."


	3. He's Not Here You Don't Know

**A/N: Sorry, guys. Um, there's also two missing song titles in the name of the chapter. I Am The One and I'm Alive. Again, anything that seems like song lyrics most likely is. Enjoy!**

John breathed heavily as he entered the flat for the first time in three years. Moving back in was going to be hard, but his therapist had recommended it; to help him cope with Sherlock's death. He looked at the yellow smile painted on the wall and sat on the sofa, putting his head in his hands. Looking up for a moment, he saw Sherlock standing in the opening to the kitchen. It was just his back, but John recognized the detective's curls, the way he held himself. He held his breath, silently begging the man to turn around. Slowly, he did, and John found himself face-to-face with Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock," the name barely escaped his lips.

"John. I need you to listen to me. I am not here. This is just your imagination."

Sherlock left the room, shaken. He'd no idea that John would be moving back into the flat. In his bedroom, he called Mycroft.

"Sherlock… what a surprise," Mycroft answered.

"Hello, brother dear. I need you to get John out of here. Help him forget me."

"Sherlock, you need to tell him that you're alive."

"Mycroft, I- I can't. I've already hurt him too much. Please."

"I'll see what I can do." Sherlock hung up and angrily phoned Lestrade.

"Lestrade, I need your help. John's back."

In the sitting room, John lay on the sofa, trying to wrap his head around what he had just seen. He couldn't be hallucinating, could he? His mobile began to ring, and he answered.

"John, this is Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson told me that you've moved back in. How are you getting on?"

"Well, thank you. But I saw Sherlock. I swear on it. Sherlock Holmes was in the flat." "John. My brother has been dead for three years. He's not here. I know you know."

"Mycroft- I swear it. I saw him."

John wheezed out a breath, then tried to take air in, but it caught in his chest, and he found tears falling onto his cheeks.

"Sherlock," he whispered, trying to catch his breath, "Sherlock, don't be dead!"

This, he had cried out louder, and in his bedroom, Sherlock heard him. John's body fell into sobs, and when Mycroft arrived at 221 B, he immediately went to him.

"John. Listen to me. He's not here. Why is it you still believe? Do you dream, or do you grieve? You've got to let him go. He's been dead-"

Lestrade entered the flat, finishing Mycroft's sentence, "Three years, John. He's not here."

"HE WAS MY BEST FRIEND!" John roared through his tears.

"We know," Lestrade answered.

"Oh? What do you know?"

"I know that you're hurt, John, and that you feel like it's your fault because you were the last person to talk to him. I'm hurting, too. So is Mycroft. His brother. How do you think he feels?"

"He hurts, too, but he can't feel as bad as I do. Do you wake up in the morning and need help to lift your head? Do you read obituaries and feel jealous of the dead? It's like living on a Cliffside, not knowing when you'll dive. Do you know? Do you know what it's like to die alive? When a world that once had color fades to white and grey and black? When tomorrow terrifies you, but you'll die if you look back?"

Mycroft nodded, but John continued: "You don't know. I know you don't know. You say that you're hurting, it sure doesn't show. You don't know. It lays me so low when you say, 'let go' and I say, 'you don't know'."

Before he could keep rambling, Mycroft cut in, "the sensation that you're screaming, but you never make a sound?"

Nodding, John said, "or the feeling that you're falling, but you never hit the ground? It just keeps on rushing at you, day by day by day by day, you don't know, you don't know what it's like to live that way."

"Can you tell me," Lestrade began, "what it is you're afraid of? I am the one who knows you, I am the one who cares. I am the one, I've always been there. I am the one who'll help you, and if you think that I just don't give a damn, you just don't know who I am. Can I leave you?"

"John, it's me." He looked over to see Sherlock again, staring at him, his face concerned.

"Will you let me go under?" John asked Lestrade, "Will you watch as I drown, and wonder why?"

"John, of course not! Are you grieving?"

"Are you hurting, are you healing, are you hoping for a life to live?" Sherlock joined John on the sofa, and the doctor watched as Mycroft and Lestrade followed him closely with their eyes. "Does it help you to know, so am I? 'Cause I'm holding on. And I won't let go. I just thought you should know. I am the one who knows you. I am the one who cares. I am the one who's always been there. I am the one who needs you, and if you think that I just don't give a damn, then you just don't know who I am."

"Sherlock?" John asked, not believing his eyes. The detective put an arm around his shoulder, and the doctor fell against him, sobbing again,

"I am what you want me to be, and I'm your worst fear. You'll find it in me. Come closer. I am more than memory, I am what might be, I am mystery. You know me, so show me. I'm alive, I'm alive, I am so alive."

"No," John sobbed into Sherlock's chest, "it's not even possible."

"Go," the detective told his brother and the inspector.

Sherlock held John until his tears subsided, long after the man had fallen asleep. Gently, Sherlock laid him on the sofa and covered him with the blanket from his own bed. He then sneaked out of the flat and did some shopping, making sure to buy loads of tea. When he was back at 221 B, John was no longer on the sofa, and Sherlock timidly called out his name.

"You- complete- arse!" John yelled as he punched the detective in the face. "I thought you were dead, and you weren't the whole time! I fell apart and where were you? NOWHERE!"

"John," Sherlock said, rubbing the bruise forming on his cheek, "you're not that angry."

"Why not, Sherlock?"

"Because," he sighed, "you avoided my nose and jaw."

John breathed heavily and started giggling.

"John! What is so funny?"

"I don't know. I think I'm laughing to keep myself from crying over you."

not to have you to talk to, hard to think. Hard to…" Sherlock trailed into silence as a tear rolled down his face. He quickly wiped it away, flashing a smile at John. "Now, I understand why you're laughing, John."

"Tea?" he asked weakly.

"I'll make it," the detective said, walking into the flat's kitchen.

John sat on the sofa, pulling Sherlock's blanket over his shoulders.

"Sherlock," he called, "I love you."

In the kitchen, Sherlock chuckled, and answered, "I love you, too."

The detective entered the sitting room with two steaming mugs of tea, handed one to john, and took his place next to him. The doctor set his mug on the coffee table, smiling at Sherlock, "thank you," he said, and softly kissed the detective. Despite his own wishes, he teared up again.

"God, I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm a complete wreck, and now you have to see it."

"John, there is nothing wrong with it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." He put his arm around John, who in return, threw Sherlock's blanket over them both, resting his head against Sherlock's chest, closing his eyes as tears began to flow, his body silently shaking with sobs. He didn't know what to feel, but he was angry, sad and happy all at the same time. He heard Sherlock murmur his name over and over as he tried to hold in his sobs. John grasped Sherlock's hands tightly as he held him.

Again, the doctor cried himself to sleep against the detective, but this time, Sherlock didn't move; he wanted to be as close to John as possible. He kissed the top of the sleeping doctor's head, breathing in the scent of John and closing his eyes.

They sat through the night together, John in Sherlock's arms; Sherlock studying the face of the man he loved, occasionally pressing a kiss to the top of his head. During the night, John startled awake, calling Sherlock's name.

"John, I'm here. I'm right here," he said, grabbing the doctor's hands, holding him close. John made eye contact with him in the dark and leaned back in to the detective, instantly asleep in his embrace. He woke to find himself in Sherlock's arms, the detective's head tilted back in slumber.

Everything that had happened the night before was real. The doctor felt the corners of his mouth turn up; he wasn't crazy. He kissed the detective awake, and Sherlock smiled at him, pulling him in for another.

Finally, John got up to shower and change, as did Sherlock, when he was done.

The day was spent on the sofa, watching crap telly as Sherlock yelled at it, and John listened, enjoying the sound of his voice and the feel of his arms around him. Every once in a while, John would kiss Sherlock, and the detective would hold him closer.

"I missed you so much."

"I'm sorry that I wasn't around. I know you needed me, and I know that I wasn't there. I'm so sorry, John, I really-"

John silenced him with a kiss.

"Not today," he said, "not now. I just want to spend today with you."

Sherlock pulled a frown, "all right, fine. Can I take you out tonight?"

"Yes," the doctor answered, looking at Sherlock, "I would love that."

"Does this count as a date? You know: when two people who like each other go out and have fun?"

Laughing, John replied, "Yes, that does count."

"Okay. Good."

"Are you going to eat?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered.

"Where are we going?"

"That," the detective confessed, kissing John quickly, "is a surprise."

"Sherlock, you can't keep a secret from me. Not for another day."

"I thought you said you didn't want to talk about this."

"I don't, but I don't like secrets anymore. Understood?"

"Yes"

"So, where are we going?"

"Angelo's"

John smiled, remembering the first case the two had worked on, when he had denied many times that he was Sherlock's date.

"That sounds fantastic," he said, stealing a kiss from the detective. Sherlock chuckled against him, pulling John in again.

"We don't have to go, you know," Sherlock breathed between kisses.

"Yes, we do. And do you want to know why? It's because you've been gone for three years, and I _want_ to have dinner with you."

"Oh, all right." He smiled broadly at the doctor, "let's go."


	4. Hey 3 Perfect For You(Reprise)

**A/N: Again, inspired by a song, so anything that looks like lyrics probably is. I hope you enjoy this one! It was really fun to write. Disclaimer: I don't own any characters or lyrics. If I did, I'd be a very happy girl.**

"John, is there any way you can come home earlier?"

"Sherlock, you know that I can't."

"But John," Sherlock whined into the phone, "we were supposed to go out tonight."

"I'll do my best. If not, I'll call you and meet you there."

"Fine."

"What time?"

"Five o'clock."

"Okay. I love you, and I'll see you later."

"Goodbye, John. I love you, too."

The detective hung up and went back to working on the case that Lestrade had given him that morning. He hoped to have some of it worked out before he and John went out that night.

A few hours into his work, Sherlock heard John coming up the stairs.

"How'd you manage to come home early?"

"Some of my patients were taken over."

"Mm."

"I'm going to change and we can go, all right?"

"That's fine," Sherlock answered, slipping his hand into his jacket pocket, where a small box rested.

John came out of the bedroom, dressed in a dark blue button-down shirt and jeans. "Hey," he said, giving the detective a kiss on the cheek.

"Hey," Sherlock answered, smiling as he looked at John, "that blue is fantastic on you."

"Thank you."

"I'm glad you're home early."

"Well, I said that I'd try."

"I thought you wouldn't be able to."

"Not tonight."

"Hmm. Shall we?"

"Yes."

The detective rose from his desk and led John out, stopping only to slip his scarf and coat on.

"Angelo's?" the doctor asked, entwining his fingers in Sherlock's.

"Where else?" He smiled.

After their dinner, Sherlock suggested they walk around Central London, the detective having a destination in mind. Soon, they had made it over to St. Bart's, and John shivered, "should we head back to the flat? It's getting a bit chilly."

"Sure, but one more thing…" Sherlock said, softly kissing the doctor and leading him over to where Sherlock's body had lain three years ago.

"Sherlock… why on earth did you bring me here?"

Without a word the detective reached into his pocket and got down on one knee.

"John Hamish Watson. I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

"Oh, God," John breathed, looking down at Sherlock.

"Will you marry me?"

The doctor stared at him, slack-jawed.

"John?"

"I-"

"Perfect for you, I will be- perfect for you. Sometimes life is a mess, and being with you, I know I can do. Because fucked up is perfect, and together is perfect. So I will be perfect-"

"Yes."

"What?"

"Yes, I will marry you." John beamed.

Shaking, Sherlock slipped a simple silver band onto the doctor's finger. John pulled him up from the ground.

"Thank you, John."

"I love you," the doctor said softly, kissing the detective, "I love you so much."

"And I, you," Sherlock answered, smiling down at him. Sherlock kissed him again, but the doctor pulled away.

"Sherlock," he started, "why here?"

"Because," he replied, kissing John's hand, "I want you to have a good memory of this place. Let's go back to the flat." He smiled, taking John's hand.

Back in 221 B, John sat on the sofa while Sherlock worked, admiring the ring on his finger. He leaned back against the cushions and sighed.

"I've almost got this done, John," Sherlock said, hearing his fiancé's sigh.

"You gathered all of that because I leaned against the cushions?"

"It was the sigh."

"Yes, right, of course it was," John muttered under his breath, getting annoyed. "Could you hurry up please?"

"John, I'm doing my best."

"I know. I'm sorry, I'm just impatient tonight," the doctor confessed, twisting his ring around. He grinned, "How long had you been planning this?"

Sherlock smirked at John's voice, "deduce it."

"You decided it the night I came back, didn't you?"

"Good."

"Are you done yet?"

Sighing, the detective stood up from his desk and joined the doctor on the sofa. "No, I'm not, but I can take a break," he said, kissing John's cheek.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

"I know that, John. Otherwise, I would have never asked you to marry me."

Sherlock's hand found John's and gripped it tightly. The doctor grinned, kissing the detective.

"You are perfect," John hummed into his ear, "even if you are annoying sometimes."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, Sherlock," he answered quickly, ducking his head.

"It means something."

"I was just making a comment in passing. Don't worry about it."

"But now I'm going to."

"Can we agree on not talking about it tonight? I said something stupid, so for Christ's sake stop over-analyzing it."

"How do you-" John silenced him with a look.

"Not tonight. We're both happy right now, and we don't need to argue."

"But John-"

"Not tonight, Sherlock, no."

"Why?"

"All right, we can talk. What do you think I meant?"

"I think you meant that I can be annoying."

"Yes. That's all it was. And only sometimes. Don't I ever annoy you?"

"Of course you do."

"I'm sorry. Will you forgive me?"

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"Fantastic," the doctor replied, softly kissing the detective's jaw.

Sherlock smiled and pulled John in for a long kiss.


End file.
